


Sparring Partners

by Abracadebra



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Episode Tag, Fist Fights, Hand-To-Hand Combat, Prisoner of War, Self-Defense, Stalag 13, Toughening up Carter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27357823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abracadebra/pseuds/Abracadebra
Summary: Carter was a skilled soldier who had trained in self-defense, marksmanship, combat, and explosives. But throwing a punch at another human being had never been in his repertoire. Newkirk is determined to change that before they get into any more trouble. Episode tag for "The Softer They Fall" (Season 5, episode 18)
Relationships: Andrew Carter & Peter Newkirk
Comments: 9
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

"You're going to have to hit one of them Nazis back at some point, you know. It won't do to let them knock you about." Newkirk was hectoring Carter in a tone that floated somewhere between concern and extreme irritation.

They were back from a late night encounter with a Nazi squad three miles outside camp. They had completed their mission of wiring a stretch of telephone lines to blow after midnight. But things had turned physical when one of the privates on patrol duty found them lurking in the shadows cast by trees on what was normally a quiet roadside. Carter took a few hard blows before Newkirk managed to jump in and finish off the Kraut with a left hook to the jaw. They left him crumpled on the ground, knowing full well that the explosion that was coming in the next 15 minutes could finish him off. Then they limped back to camp, with Newkirk supporting Carter all the way. Their return had taken them two hours longer than expected.

Both men were still dressed in sabotage blacks as Newkirk hovered over Carter in the tunnels below Stalag 13. Carter sat stiffly on a bench, his back to the wall, as Sergeant Wilson dabbed iodine on a bloody cheekbone.

"Hey! Ow! That hurts, Wilson!" Carter yelped.

"That was a ring, that was." Newkirk was addressing Wilson and waving a grubby hand close to Carter's face. "One of those metal signet rings, probably for his regiment. That's why it left such a mark."

"Leave my patient alone and go wash, Newkirk," Wilson grumbled, his eyes focused squarely on the injuries he was treating. "Carter has broken ribs and a concussion, and he's going to have a hell of a black eye. He doesn't need you to give him a skin infection to go with it." He looked his patient in the eye. "Three or four stitches ought to do it. I could just tape it, but it'll heal better with stitches. Your mother will thank me."

"Fine," Carter sighed.

"Your ribs, on the other hand…" Wilson mumbled.

Newkirk stuck his hands in his pockets, ignoring Wilson. "Take it from me, mate, your busted ribs will feel better in a week. And if you're not going to hit back, then you'd bloody well better learn to duck, which is hard to do once he's nailed you in the ribcage," he lectured Carter. "I don't know what we're going to do with you, Andrew." He shook his head in dismay. "You need to work on your speed and your reflexes."

Colonel Hogan came up behind Newkirk with a big flashlight in one hand, and took him by the arm. "Thank you, Marquess of Queensbury," he said. "Leave Wilson alone to stitch Carter up. I need your report."

Newkirk ignored that hint, too. "He needs a proper light to sew him up, Sir. I can hold the torch," Newkirk said, reaching for what Hogan was carrying, though Hogan wasn't letting go. Newkirk bit back his next thought, which was that Wilson's stitch work left something to be desired, and that his supervision could only help.

"Fine by me," Hogan said. He knew there was no reasoning with Newkirk right now. He needed to be there when one of his friends was hurt; it was just his nature. He released Newkirk's arm and dangled the flashlight out of his reach. "OK if he helps with the light, Wilson? Carter?"

"Yeah," Carter said. "He can stay."

"Fine," Wilson said. "But stand back and shut up, Newkirk. I need to concentrate."

Newkirk rolled his eyes and nodded, and Hogan handed him the flashlight. "Give me your report as soon as you're done here."

**H=H=H=H=H**

Six days later, Hogan's team was at the main table in the Barracks 2 eating breakfast. For a couple of days, Carter had needed Newkirk's help to lever himself onto his feet, but now he was able to stand up and settle himself at the table. His ribs were on the mend, or at least much less sore.

Hogan took a seat at the end of the table next to Carter, and leaned in to examine the Sergeant's face. "Your black eye's looking better," Hogan said.

"Green is definitely your color," Newkirk quipped. "It coordinates perfectly with your jumpsuit. In a day or two, it will be yellow, which makes good sense when you think about it."

"Are you saying I'm yellow, Newkirk?" Carter snapped.

"I'm just joking, Carter, but if the shoe fits…" Newkirk replied, grinning broadly.

LeBeau elbowed Newkirk, and Hogan set him straight. "Knock it off, Newkirk. No name calling."

"Sorry, Sir. Sorry, Carter," he added. "You're brave, of course I know that. I just wish you'd learn to fight."

"I've got a gun, and I know how to use it," Carter said. He squinted his eyes at Newkirk, and managed to look and sound slightly menacing. Not menacing enough to deter a street-smart Cockney, though.

"Yeah, but we can't leave a string of bodies everywhere we go, can we?" Newkirk argued. He lit up a cigarette and took a deep puff, and when he spoke the exasperation had left his voice; genuine curiosity took its place. "Didn't your old man ever teach you to throw a punch?"

"No!" Carter said, scandalized. "He taught me stay away from guys who fight. There's no need to rough people up if you use your brain, that's what he always said."

"But what if someone jumps you? Like in, a dark alley?" Very little that Carter said ever computed, really.

"I don't go in dark alleys, Newkirk," Carter said, utterly bewildered. "I'm not sure we even have dark alleys in Bullfrog. Or alleys at all. I think there's an alley in Muncie, though, behind the pharmacy where we keep the trash cans."

Newkirk tried not to look too stunned, but he was trying to fathom what world it was that Carter inhabited, where no one ever hit anyone, and there were no dark alleys, and no looming threats. It didn't sound natural at all. And this was America he was talking about. Newkirk had been to the pictures. Surely there were gangsters and gun battles everywhere.

"Well, you're not in blooming Bullfrog or Muncie right now, are you? You're in Nazi Germany and you're sneaking around in places you don't belong, and you're getting kicked, punched, and shot at by people known as 'the enemy.' So I think it's bleeding well time you took an interest in learning to put up your dukes."

"Newkirk," Hogan said by way of warning.

"My what?" Carter said.

"Your dukes. Your fists," Newkirk sighed. "You need to learn to fight. Because you can't solve everything with a gun!" There, that sounded noble, he thought.

"All right, fellas, stop it," Hogan said. But they continued talking over him.

"I took self-defense, Newkirk," Carter shot back. "Everyone in the Army goes through that training. I didn't get these stripes for nothing, you know," he added, tugging at his sleeve.

"Self-defense is all good and well if you actually use it, which you didn't. And you need to be able to take the offense, too," Newkirk insisted.

LeBeau, who had been listening quietly, dropped a hand on Carter's shoulder. "He's not wrong, Carter."

"Blimey, Louis, thank you, but would it kill you to say I'm right?" Newkirk muttered.

LeBeau shot him a look. "He's not wrong," he continued. "And he's just worried about you," he added with a penetrating look in Newkirk's direction. "Aren't you, Pierre?"

"Fine, yes, I'm worried about you, Carter," Newkirk said with a dramatic wave of his arms. But he couldn't leave well enough alone. "I'm also worried about everyone around you if you can't react quickly enough and end up in a heap on the ground when we need to fly off to save our ruddy hides! It took us two bleeding hours to get back! And perhaps it's escaped your notice, but I'm an absolute coward when it comes to dying. I'm very much opposed to it, speaking for myself."

After expending all that breath and stunning everyone into silence, Newkirk turned to Colonel Hogan and spoke quietly. "Sorry, Sir, but I _am_ worried. He doesn't know how to hit anyone." He still couldn't fathom that thought.

Hogan's lips were tight with irritation. For some reason, Newkirk was like a dog with a bone on the issue of Carter's ability to fight. But he was thinking. "OK, both of you, get up."

Carter and Newkirk got to their feet.

"Punch him, Carter. Right in the gut," Hogan commanded. "Let's see how you can fight."

"Punch Newkirk, Sir? I don't want to do that!" Carter replied. "Gosh, what would my dad say?"

A murmur rose around the room as everyone watched. Apparently there were a few volunteers who would be happy to punch Newkirk. LeBeau crossed his arms, snorted, and smirked at Newkirk, who punched him in the arm in reply.

"Go ahead, Andrew," Newkirk said, holding his arms wide. "Have at me. I don't mind."

"Listen to him, Carter. Throw a punch," Hogan said. He saw the hesitation, so he strengthened his argument. "Your dad would expect you to listen to your commanding officer, Carter."

"That's right," Carter said, brightening up somewhat. "OK." He balled up his fist and aimed it at Newkirk's mid-section.

Before he even made contact, Newkirk had grabbed him by the wrist and was twisting it.

"Ow! Let go!" Carter said.

Newkirk replied by stomping on Carter's foot. Not very hard, at least he didn't think so. But hard enough to get a reaction.

"Ow! Jeez, Newkirk!" Carter complained.

Newkirk tugged Carter's hand right in front of his face and held it there. "Look, that's your problem, right there. You don't even know how to make a fist!" He let go of Carter's wrist, but Carter kept his fist in front of him.

"That IS a fist!" Carter replied.

"No, that's a way to get your thumb broken," Newkirk snapped. "Don't wrap your fingers over your thumb. Put your thumb on top of your knuckles, you prat."

Kinch, who had been standing by silently, stood up behind Newkirk. "He's right, Carter," Kinch said. "People who don't know how to fight break their hands all the time that way." He and Newkirk bumped knuckles in solidarity.

"You teach me how to fight, then," Carter said. "You know how to box."

"It's not a boxing ring out there, Carter," Kinch said. "I could teach you some ring techniques, but Newkirk's a scrapper. He knows how to fight dirty."

"I noticed," Carter said. The top of his foot was still throbbing. "What about LeBeau, then?"

"He could tear your arms off," Newkirk said admiringly. "But he fights from a… well, a different vantage point."

"I could teach another guy my size," LeBeau said, bobbing his head. "Not you. Newkirk's right, for once."

"Fine," Hogan said. "Carter, rest a few more days until those ribs are healed, and then Newkirk's going to teach you to fight. And you," he said, addressing the Englishman with an index finger in his face, "had better not break him."

"It all depends on what you mean by 'break,' Sir," Newkirk replied with triumphant, cat-like grin. "Don't you worry one bit, Sir. I'll have our Andrew in fighting form inside of a week."


	2. Chapter 2

It was a few days before Newkirk and Carter managed to begin their athletic regimen. The whole team had been busy gathering intelligence on a pair of rogue Luftwaffe colonels with responsibility for training combatants. They were traveling from Berlin and touring training facilities in Potsdam, Leipzig, Magdeburg, and Erfurt. At each location, they had passed along troop strength, transit plans, and other vital secrets via Underground contacts. They were expected in Hammelburg in a week, and Hogan was looking for a way to contact them directly to involve them in an urgent mission: Determining where and how air-cover training for a possible invasion was being conducted.

When they finally got an hour of free time, Newkirk and Carter had Stalag 13's neglected and poorly equipped gymnasium to themselves. They pushed storage boxes up against the walls to make space for their practice. They changed into exercise gear and prepared their hands for a workout.

"All right, look," Newkirk began, raising a pair of carefully taped fists in front of his face. "The power of a punch does not come from your fist, or your arms, or your shoulders."

"Huh?" Carter said. He sounded bewildered. He looked worse. Carter was a decent-looking guy 90 percent of the time, but sometimes his face did the most peculiar things. Like right now. He was grinning—sort of— but only on one side. His mouth had all gone rubbery and his half-a-grin had climbed halfway to his eyebrows.

It didn't help one bit that he was standing across from Newkirk with his own taped hands dangling at his side. They were both wearing horrid, ill-fitting, communal exercise gear—button-front shorts that stopped at mid-thigh for Newkirk but went all the way to the knee for Carter, grubby olive t-shirts that were musty with other men's sweat, and silly soft shoes that Newkirk referred to as plimsolls.

"Huh?" apparently meant little to Newkirk, so Carter elaborated. "I don't get it," he said.

"The power comes from your legs, mate. You find your base," Newkirk said, settling his feet a comfortable distance apart beneath him. "Then you turn away from your target, just a tad," he continued. He stopped and let out an exasperated sound. "It doesn't work unless you do as I do, Carter," he snapped.

"OK, fine," Carter said, turning a little pink as he followed along. It felt unnatural, and he was pretty sure he looked like a big goofball. But, he decided, at least he looked better in shorts than Newkirk did. He was kind of pudgy around the middle.

"Right. Good," Newkirk said as he watched Carter find his balance. "Feet a little farther apart, mate, or it's too easy to get knocked off balance. Your right foot goes back. Yeah. That's good."

Newkirk stopped to think. He'd given a few lads tips on fighting over the years, including difficult students like his brother Harry, who had an exceptional aptitude for putting the boot in and none whatsoever for following instructions. He snickered at the thought of that lad in basic training, then sobered up and returned to the task at hand.

"Hands up to cover your face," Newkirk demonstrated. "Now, tuck your arms—you've got them flared out like chickens wings. Your arms should be vertical and tight with your body. Right. Now, turn your hips and let your fists fly."

Carter's right arm went up and out, and once again Newkirk caught his fist before it landed.

"Straight out," Newkirk intoned. "Don't wing your arm out to side like that. It's wasteful. Use as little movement as possible so you can get your hand back in front of your face so I don't do this." Newkirk landed a punch on Carter's stomach and instantly pulled himself back into a protective stance.

Carter gasped, but Newkirk had avoided the ribs and actually landed a pretty light punch, so he knew he'd done no harm. Except that now Newkirk was rubbing his bare knuckles. He thought for a moment that they really could use boxing gloves or someone was going to get hurt; then he reminded himself that they were unlikely ever to have boxing gloves at their disposal on the Hammelburg Road.

Carter dropped his hands down to his sides. "I really hate this, Newkirk," he said. "I don't like hitting people."

"Think of it as a sport, Carter. The sport of kings, boxing is. You'll get the hang of it," Newkirk said.

"I thought we _weren't_ boxing," Carter whined.

"This is a bit like boxing, plus a few other techniques," Newkirk said patiently. "Look, you play baseball, right?"

Carter nodded.

"Right, when you swing that ridiculous round bat of yours, how do you move your hips?"

Carter demonstrated his batting technique, which was pretty solid. He pushed off his foot, rotated his hips, and extended his arm toward the target.

"That's it, exactly," Newkirk said. "Just do it with your arm going straight out. Don't hook it out or make a loop with it."

They went through the exercise a few times. Newkirk had Carter concentrate on throwing punches, not landing them, until he was satisfied with the movement. Then, he put his fists back up and blocked Carter's punches with taps on the knuckles. Carter, it seemed, was getting the hang of it, because despite the bandages, Newkirk's hands were starting to hurt.

"We need boxing gloves," he said as he rubbed his knuckles and showed Carter how to do the same. They were seating side by side on a bench re-wrapping their hands for another sparring round when Kommandant Klink burst into the room with Hogan and Kinch on his heels.

"Ah, Colonel Hogan told me I would find you here," Klink said in his usual gloating way. "Show us what you're doing."

Hogan nodded, so Newkirk and Carter got back on their feet and went through a practice round, bobbing and jabbing and punching, making only light contact on their bandaged hands.

Klink's annoying voice interrupted their concentration. "Don't they ever actually hit one another, Hogan?" he whined. "That's the whole point, isn't it?"

Kinch replied. "They're just practicing, Sir. And they don't have boxing gloves."

Carter piped in, with a hand on his side. "Yes, Sir, and I'm still recovering from … uh, a bad cold. Which didn't affect my ribs at all, but when I think of all that sneezing I stick my hand right here, you know?"

Thankfully, the near-disclosure flew right over Klink's head. "We can get you some gloves. That is, if you'd be willing to be a sparring partner for our very own Fighting Fritz. He's training for the Luftwaffe lightweight championship."

"Which Fritz is that, Kommandant?" Newkirk asked.

"The corporal in the guard house near the front gate," Hogan replied, rolling his eyes behind Klink's back.

"He's no lightweight, Sir," Newkirk interjected. "He's about my size, and I'm probably a middleweight."

"Good! We have a volunteer!" Klink said jubilantly.

"No Sir! Carter here is closer to a lightweight, although I suspect he's a welter…" Newkirk stopped himself before he dug a deeper hole. He couldn't volunteer Carter too.

But it was too late. "Excellent! You can both train him, working together. And I'm sure we can get him down to the correct weight class in 10 days," Klink said cheerfully.

"Not unless you cut off one of his legs," Newkirk muttered under his breath to Carter.

"Hold on, hold on, Kommandant—what's in it for us?" As usual, Hogan smelled opportunity

Klink stroked his chin and thought. "White bread, of course. Two eggs per man for each of the next two weeks. Butter. Bacon. I'm sure you'd all enjoy a nice Sunday breakfast."

The prisoners' mouths were salivating. That sounded like real food. But Hogan wasn't biting yet. "This is just training, right Kommandant? Getting Fritz ready for the match?"

"Exactly, Colonel Hogan," Klink said. "After the humiliation your men endured in the fight with Battling Bruno, I couldn't possibly ask anyone here to actually fight again. Not in the face of superior German might."

Kinch, Newkirk and Carter wore the tightest smiles on the continent of Europe as Klink spoke, and they could each feel their fingernails digging into the palms of their hands. Their jaw muscles flinched and Kinch was chewing a hole on the inside of his cheek, but they held their tongues.

"Well, Sir, that's a very kind offer," Hogan said. "But we couldn't possibly train a rising star like Fighting Fritz here in his mess of a gymnasium. It wouldn't be seemly. The only way we could make it work is if we went to the officers' club in town. The facility there is much better. But Fritz is just a corporal. There's no way he'd be allowed…"

"Consider it done, Colonel Hogan. I shall make all the arrangements. Three hours of daily practice for the next week," Klink said with a magnanimous wave of his hand. He spun on his heel and marched out of the gym.

Hogan crossed his arms and grinned. "Looks like we have our pass into Hammelburg to get the skinny on air-cover training," he said.


	3. Chapter 3

At nine o'clock on a sunny morning, a Stalag 13 staff car rumbled down a gravel road past a gatehouse, through a limestone portal, and across an entrance court before stopping in front of a grand old mansion on the edge of Hammelburg. Schultz parked the vehicle and attempted to heave himself out of the driver's seat. While the rotund Sergeant got his balance and his bearings, Hogan stepped out from the passenger seat and Carter and Newkirk piled out of the back seat.

"Jeepers," Carter said as he looked up at the mansion's grand windows and turrets. "The officers clubs don't look like this back home."

"What do you know about officers' clubs?" Newkirk smirked as he reached back into the vehicle.

Carter sighed. "It's a long story, Newkirk." Hogan gave him a sympathetic nod, but Newkirk missed it; he was busy hauling a bag containing sporting equipment from the car.

"Everything's a long story with you, Carter." Being out of camp agreed with Newkirk, and he sounded unusually good-natured. He slung the bag over his shoulder, then straightened up, glanced around, and raised his eyebrows. "Blimey, this a bit Gothic, isn't it? What was this place before now?"

Naturally, Kinch had briefed Hogan thoroughly. "It was built as a merchant's home in 1544," Hogan responded. "More recently, the residence of Baron von Hirschel, founder of Hirschel Hydraulic Engineering. That is, until it was seized by the Nazi government in November 1938."

"What was seized? The company or the residence?" Carter asked.

"Both, and the Baron, too," Hogan said. "He's been incarcerated ever since."

"Kristallnacht," Schultz whispered, shaking his head regretfully.

"Burnings and beatings of defenseless, innocent people," Newkirk spat, throwing a menacing look at Schultz just for good measure. "Destruction just for sake of flexing Nazi muscles. And an entire country standing by, willing to believe a gigantic lie. Disgraceful." His good mood had evaporated; he looked disgusted.

Carter was temporarily stunned into silence by Newkirk's outburst. He understood the anger, but this sounded deeply personal. He searched for the right words, but came up short. "It's hard to believe something so horrible could ever happen," he said.

"Believe it," Hogan said firmly. "It could happen again if we're not vigilant." Inside, he was as angry as Newkirk was, but he was better at masking it. "Now it's a Luftwaffe officers club, with a mess, of course, and one of the best-equipped gymnasiums in a hundred mile radius. Not to mention, very comfortable quarters for officers in transit." He raised his eyebrows in what both Carter and Newkirk understood to be a reminder of why they were there. Any Luftwaffe colonels passing through would very likely be billeted here, in these elegant surroundings. And the rogue colonels were known to have stayed at similar facilities.

With Schultz leading the way, the men ascended a few steps, passed through towering double doors, and entered a vast foyer, two stories high, with stone carvings on the walls. Newkirk and Hogan did their best to look nonchalant as Schultz conferred with a guard at a jarringly incongruous metal desk plunked down in the middle of a polished stone floor. Carter, however, was gawking. Being of a scientific mindset, he was wondering aloud how the place was put together. Then, as his eyes searched around the large space and spied some arches, he suddenly got it.

"Flying buttresses!" he said, brightly. "I've read about them. I just never saw one before." Hogan laid a hand on Carter's arm to keep him from dashing across the room to examine an archway. "What's the principle, again?"

"Like I said, it's Gothic," Newkirk hissed, ignoring a question he could not possibly have answered while pondering British cultural superiority. "Like Westminster Abbey," he added, as if that made things crystal clear. He rolled his eyes; poor excitable Yanks, surrounded by log cabins and teepees and farmhouses and dusty saloons, but no proper architecture whatsoever.

"Think about your physics class, Carter," Hogan whispered. "The buttresses transfer the weight load from the ceiling. And they helped to keep the inner walls thin by imposing an equal and opposite force on the wall to keep it in balance."

"It's why they can have proper windows," Newkirk said, tipped his head up toward a gallery soaked in sunlight.

"It's really something," Carter said, clearly admiring the old building's workmanship. He was thinking thoughts of architecture and physics as Schultz gestured to the trio. Schultz led them past a grand, circular stairway, down a corridor, and finally into a vast, well-lit room.

Lockers and benches lined one end of the nearest wall. Along the adjacent wall, there were racks of dumbbells and barbells, as well as weight benches. Past them, on the other side of a doorway, were cases for epées, foils and sabers and protective gear; a long rubber strip lay on the floor. The center of the room was occupied by a pommel horse, a vaulting horse, a springboard, rings, and parallel bars and high bars. Floor mats and contraptions with pulleys for strengthening arms and legs were scattered here and there.

And in far corner, down from the rubber strip—which Hogan identified as "the piste"—there was a raised platform with four ropes attached to posts and pulled taut with turnbuckles. Their destination.

"Why do they call it a ring when it's square, anyway?" Carter mused.

"Blimey, Carter, there's a ring in the middle where you meet at the start of the bout. Now belt up. That's your competition, right there." He gestured at a man who was skipping rope behind the boxing ring.

"It's funny to see a guy playing jump rope," Carter giggled. "I mean, where I come from, that's for little girls."

"Oh, really?" Newkirk drawled. "Well, look at that muscle tone, coordination, rhythm and focus, and tell me about little girls again."

Carter gulped. "I thought we weren't boxing, not really," he said tentatively. His eyes were now glued on Fighting Fritz. He'd seen him in camp, but out of uniform, Fritz looked bigger and more muscular than Carter had expected.

"I'm still going to teach you to fight, Carter, but we've got to do this bit for London," Newkirk said quietly. "You know that."

"Yeah, I guess so," Carter responded. His voice quaked a little as he said it.

"You're not nervous, are you, Carter?" Hogan asked. He had his thumbs hooked in his jacket pockets and was grinning just a little too cheerfully for Carter's liking. He was so relaxed that he looked like he might start whistling at any moment. He often looked diabolically pleased with himself when he was hatching ideas.

"Me? Nervous? No, Sir, I'm not nervous. I'm scared out of my mind. I'm not a fighter. Newkirk already told you, I can hardly throw a punch! What I am I doing here?" The words came tumbling out in a rush of pure fear. Hogan and Newkirk had each laid a hand on Carter before he was even through.

"Calm down, Carter," Hogan said. "Just do what Newkirk says about fighting, and follow my lead when you're out of the ring."

"That's right, Carter. You're just going to spar with him a little," Newkirk said. He saw the woebegone look on Carter's poor face, and added, "I'll take a few turns in the ring, too. It won't only be you. I'll even go first so I can size him up."

"Why does he need us? What about those guys?" There were a few more boxers in the gym, practicing with punching bags. "We're gonna do this for three hours a day?" Carter asked plaintively.

Hogan looked quizzical, and turned to Newkirk for an explanation. He thought he'd had the upper hand from the start but come to think of it, why _did_ the Krauts need POWs as sparring partners? Was Klink setting him up for a fall? Not that Klink could come up with an idea like that on his own, but had he been led, maybe by Hochstetter or Burkhalter? This mission had fallen into place too easily, in retrospect.

"They're no good to him," Newkirk said. He gestured toward the boxers. "Look at them, chattering as they work out. They all know each other. When you get accustomed to one another, you don't get the quality of fighting that you need to stay on your toes. You need somebody new. Somebody with their own moves and style," he said.

Newkirk clapped Carter on the back with what he hoped would come across as enthusiasm and encouragement, even though he felt sick as he did it. Fighting Fritz was jumping like a mad man, the whooshing sound of his rope splitting the air. He looked unstoppable. What on earth had they got themselves into?

**H=H=H=H=H**

**_AUTHOR'S NOTES:_ **

_1) Of approximately 700 German nobles created between 1819 and 1900, 62 were Jewish. And 2) Y_ _es, I am flicking at the idea that Sergeant Carter was previously Lieutenant Carter. I won't be offering an explanation; I just like the idea that Hogan knows this, but smart alec Newkirk doesn't remember a previous encounter with his frenemy._


End file.
